Room 101 and Revolution
by Ishmael of the Clouds
Summary: Sometimes one unbreakable person s all it takes to set something grand in motion. Artis is taken to room 101 and doesn't break, but is scarred for the rest of her life. Unknown to her, one unbreakable person makes the whole system start to fail. One martyr is all it takes. Better than it sounds, not very graphic for T for my paranoia. R


Artis did not struggle against her bonds. It would do no good. Her gazed bored into the ceiling, and she thanked the one asset of herself she used to despise. The asset that she had hated because it had crippled her. But now, now she clung resolutely to her unbreakable, unmovable, unalterable stubbornness. When she was behind that wall, she could act, take all the blows in the world, but still think for herself. Out of sheer stubbornness and spite she kept her mind.

"It is impossible to be a perfect relic of the old times." She whispered.

"Why?" O'Brien asked from his post against the wall. Her bonds held her tight, she could only see him out of the corner of her eye.

"True relics are good people, kind people, moral and humble people. To keep free thought alive you must embrace negative virtues." Like crippling stubbornness and venomous spite. Even in room 101 she clung to her only bitter salvation.

"You know what this room is Artis."

"I have my suspicions."

"It is the worst thing in the world." Of course. After beating, starving, pain, brainwashing, overpowering fear was the next step. But what did she fear above all else?

"But what is the worst thing in my world, O'Brien? In my whole life I have disliked things, feared things yes, but never found something that I fear more than all else." Was that a short bark of a chuckle from O'Brien? Maybe. Anything is possible.

"You were difficult. Very difficult. But in the end, your phobia will get the best of you." Cold dread washed over her at the word phobia. She had assumed they were going to play on her being gun shy. But her phobia, it had been so long she hadn't even known she still had it.

Several jugs were brought in. Bleach, chemical cleaner, and others of the type sat on the table around her. Slowly, very slowly, O'Brien unscrewed each lid. He poured a little on the floor, a little more on the table, and set the open jug by her head. Ten jugs, exactly ten, encircled her head as the panic attack set in. The smell, the nose searing smell, eye watering smell. Her throat itched like fire, her nose burned and she screamed. Wordlessly screamed and sobbed as the panic attack gripped her in icy claws. The smell was too much, too much. It permeated every fiber of her being.

But, her mind began to fight the panic, as she had taught herself to many years ago. She remembered, she remember her true fear. The fear O'Brien could not put in the tiny, strong smelling room.

"You failed." She choked out. His barely visible raising eyebrows asked her how.

"This is my phobia, but I taught myself to cope with it. You can attack me with my greatest fear."

"What is that?"

"Non existence. A time when the great achievements and beauty of humanity has been whipped off the face of the earth. That has happened. Where is Shakespeare? Where the paintings of Picasso and Van Gogh? Where is true literature and beauty? It is gone. Big Brother has whipped out the reason humans deserved to exist in the first place. My greatest fear has already come true." O'Brien gaped at her. She screwed her eyes shut, resolutely breathed through her nose, and dud her best to shut out his scream of fury. In an instant, the jug of bleach was emptied onto the starved face of a young woman named Artis.

Everything was blurry, as usual. But the muffled sounds of fighting resounded in her ears as she asked her companion.

"What is happening today Philipp?" A soft woof answered her. The sound on the telescreen was turned up as her intelligent canine knew when the news bulletins were on. Now telescreens were fairly harmless, their camera disabled, and used only for broadcasts." A strong, only remotely panicky news anchor relayed the recent events.

"Today with help from the recently freed Eurasian battalion, the Peoples Republic have captured another Oligarchy stronghold. While Eastasia remains in the grips of its dictators, Oceania is nearly freed from the oppressive Oligarchy reign. Soon, troops will advance farther into Eurasia to ensure the removal of their dictator. Unfortunately, as it now a recurring pattern, children are either committing suicide or taking up arms to help the Oligarchy. The child brainwashing that occurred in the time of Big Brother [the man gives a shudder the nearly blind woman can feel in his pause] was only to effective. It is a terrible tragedy, and many children are being captured so their minds can be cleared and become healthy. Down with Oligarchy!" Philipp gently used his paw to turn off the telescreen.

"Good news perhaps Philipp. But in the end corruption might take its course once again." A woof. She stroked his head when he put it in her lap. Her chemical scarred face betrayed nothing, not even when a heavy boot kicked down the door.

"Mam, I am here to help you out, this building is going to be bombed." She smiled at him

"You don't need to help me, I am fine where I am. But take Philipp. He's a smart little thing, make sure he gets a good home."

"Mam I can't leave you here."

"Yes you can sonny just pick up Philipp and leave."

"Mam you are going to die if you stay here." Her smile turned wry.

"Go get the others here, though not many have stayed I bet. I died a long time ago. My records vanished the day O'Brien through bleach on the face of a girl named Artis. Go now, I wouldn't want you to die arguing with an old hag." Seeing nothing else to do, he picked up the scraggly dog and started to close the door when the old, blind woman added.

"If you capture an Oligarchy supporter, by the name of O'Brien though he must be long dead by now, tell him I died laughing." And laugh she did. Cackle as the bomb turned her home to rubble. Laugh at the fact that her worst fear was coming to an end. That she had a reason to hope again.

The heavy booted young man kept the dog, and when Philipp fathered puppies, one was named Artis, after the laughing woman with chemical scars. The others were named after his grandparents, who had been martyrs before the Revolution, so had he three puppies; Artis, Julia, and Winston.


End file.
